There is No Death
by Westel
Summary: He reached up to his neck, touching the clasp of his robe and hood which were thrown back on his shoulders, then down to his waist, where his lightsaber rested comfortably on his hip.


There is No Death 

He walked in whiteness, if indeed he walked at all. He thought his legs moved, but there was no evidence of the weight of them, of the touch of footfall meeting ground. Yet he moved, and with purpose, toward something that was just out of his sight, but near enough to sense.

How he came to be here he didn't know. It was like stepping into a memory and taking up his place: rehearsed, sure, confident in the actor's mark upon the stage.

Still he walked on.

It was nearer, now; his eyes, if indeed he truly saw, reacted to the whiteness around him as if to the light of a great star, its rays burning through him with an intensity that wakened, stimulated him, enlivened him to the last molecule in his body. With new perception, he saw as if for the first time.

The whiteness was giving way; new colors and sensations moved around him, delicate, tentative, gentle and cool. He breathed, aware that he was breathing – had he forgotten how? He stopped, drinking in the freshness of the day around him, the perfection of the land in which he stood.

Yet he was drawn even further, into a nearby grove of trees, into a sylvan shadow new-drawn and yet ancient, where he heard music faintly playing.

As he walked – yes, he was walking. When he looked down he saw his own booted feet move along the green expanse, saw his own arms swinging in the grace of his stride.

How?

He was walking – he, who had so long been unable to rise from his bed.

_I'm dreaming._

He reached for his arm; taking a firm grip, he pinched himself. Hard.

It hurt.

But the music was clearer now – still soft, but beckoning, calling. He moved toward it, unquestioning.

There was a rise of land before him, rocky, sprinkled with delicate blue flowers cascading down the sides of the boulders. A small spring rose at its base, bubbling and chattering in the birth of a small stream which ran singing away into the woods. The music was just over the rise.

He sprang up the slope, hoisting himself up the face of the rocky outcropping without effort, his breath coming easily.

_How?_

He was climbing – he, who had so long been unable to rise from his bed.

Awestruck, he stood at the top of the rise, but there were no musicians, no instruments.

He was alone.

_I'm dreaming. Surely… surely, I'm dreaming._

He reached for his prosthetic hand, touched the point which would open the inner mechanism to view. It did not open. With in-drawn breath, he held the hand up to his face, turning it in a shaft of sunlight which lit the bone structure within. Bone, not durasteel. With his left hand, he bent back the small finger of his right until it elicited an involuntary grunt of pain.

His hand. It was his hand.

He held up both hands to the light. Identical, but mirror-image. Two hands – human hands - young hands, the fingers supple and the skin clear and smooth.

_I __am__ dreaming._

Luke sat down on a rock and waited to wake up. He knew this was not possible. It was some drug-induced fabrication of his aged brain as it lay within the dying shell of a very old Jedi Master.

He lay dying alone, just as he had lived alone so many of the years of his life. A long life, heritage of the Jedi; a hard life, heritage of his own lineage; a good life, heritage of his nature and of the people who had loved him - people who had left him, one by one, as he watched their episodes play out. Some had left for other places, other adventures; some had simply grown apart as the cares of their daily lives precluded room for him; many had died, particularly those first and most precious of his friends and loved ones – some of natural deaths, some of deaths in the line of duty. But all were gone now.

And he was alone.

But yet… not alone.

He smiled to himself, remembering…

Ben Kenobi had stayed with him, long after he couldn't see or hear him anymore. Luke knew he was still there. Yoda, too, was with Luke in his thoughts, his memories of those intense weeks of training. The Master's words of wisdom echoed audibly in his mind even now. Anakin – his father – he saw only once, but the vision of his renewed visage in the forests of Endor was unforgettable. Leia – long-lost sister and beloved friend, who had been killed with Han and young Anakin on a diplomatic trip – it was to have been Anakin's first experience as representative for the Alliance. The young man whom Luke had worried so much about had finally found his niche, his purpose in life. Gone now.

All gone.

But all with him.

The music called him again. He rose, moving down the embankment, his robes flowing about him.

_Robes?_

He looked down again. His lean body was wrapped in an off-white tunic, just reaching his knees. Below the hem were pants of a dark material, disappearing into the tops of his brown boots.

Brown? His boots had always been black.

He reached up to his neck, touching the clasp of his robe and hood which were thrown back on his shoulders, then down to his waist, where his lightsaber rested comfortably on his hip.

_How?_

He was young, he was Jedi, he was _alive_ – he, who had so long been unable to rise from his bed.

_I'm not dreaming._

"I'm dead."

"From a certain point of view," he heard a familiar voice intone.

Luke shot a look at the young man who stood nearby, his hands hooked in his belt, the gesture strikingly familiar but sitting on the face of an unknown. But yet, not unknown…

The young man smiled and moved into the sunlight of the small clearing, his short-cropped, blond hair glinting in the radiance as he moved. He came up to Luke and offered his hand.

"Hello, Luke. Welcome home." Again that voice – so well-known, so serious but laced with humor. He looked into the man's blue eyes, saw the crinkles at the corners that, in old age, would have been laugh lines. This man was young, beardless. But the eyes were wise, full of humor and love. They were the eyes of a Jedi.

Luke grabbed the man's outstretched hand in both of his, his eyes filling suddenly with tears. "Ben!" he cried, pumping his old friend's hand joyously. "Ben!"

The young man hesitated a moment, then smiled broadly. "Yes, I was called that once, wasn't I? How soon I forgot!" And he laughed, something Luke had never heard Obi-Wan do before. Yet it was as natural – and wonderful – a gesture as his next one. His old friend pulled Luke into a warm embrace, slapping him gently on the back. Luke found himself returning the hug, overwhelmed by a myriad of emotions.

Finally, when they parted, still holding on to each other's shoulders, Luke became aware of

another man standing nearby, dressed similarly, a small smile playing over his face. Luke didn't recognize him, but immediately felt as if he should know him somehow. Ben held out his hand to the man and he approached quietly, his smile broadening as he took in the sight of Luke.

"At last me meet," he said, holding out his hand. "You are the third Skywalker I have known, but the first Jedi Master Skywalker." Luke shook his hand, puzzled by the words.

"The third?"

"I knew your father well - young Anakin - before I left him in Obi-Wan's care."

"You knew my father?" Luke asked eagerly. Obi-Wan smiled at some awakened memory.

"A long time ago, when he was a boy of 10 years or so."

"Let me introduce you, Luke. This is my former teacher, Qui-Gon Jinn. I was his Padawan until I was knighted. Qui-Gon wanted to train Anakin, but that duty fell to me when he…" Ben swallowed, then looked at his old master as if to remind himself that the past he spoke of was just that, the past, and of no matter here.

Luke knew Ben's part of the Anakin story well, and understood that here, in this place where apparently all things had changed, it was not necessary to bring up old history. His curiosity about one thing mastered him, however, and he threw all restraints aside.

"You spoke of a third Skywalker, Qui-Gon. Who… who was that?"

Qui-Gon smiled.

"You see, I've never known much about my family. Never had time to talk to Ben or Yoda except about immediate, pressing things. I've always wondered…"

The long-haired Jedi placed a hand on Luke's shoulder. "I have a million things to tell you, Luke, but let me just say for now that the third Skywalker was Anakin's mother – your grandmother. She lived on Tatooine when I met her."

Luke's eyes widened in wonder. "Then you…"

"Luke," interrupted Obi-Wan, "I know you want to know all there is about the universe, and you want to know it now, but I think you have a few other matters you need to contend with first." He gestured to the distance where, in the shadows, Luke could see others standing among the trees, as if waiting their turn. He stared at them, curious, then looked back into the eyes of Obi-Wan, shaking his head incredulously.

"They're all here to see me?"

"All," confirmed Ben.

"Huh!" Luke exhaled, putting his hands on his hips. "I don't believe it!"

"Said that once before, did you," replied the gravelly voice of Luke's second teacher and Master, Yoda. Luke stared wide-eyed at him as he approached – his back straight, the grey elf-locks replaced by thin, corn-gold hair which bristled around his head like a halo. Gone were his cane and his tattered robes. Gone, too was the wraithlike glow Luke had become used to seeing over the years. He glanced back at Obi-Wan, realizing that he, too, had lost his otherworldly look.

He knelt on the grass, gazing into the little Master's eyes as he approached, too beset to speak. Yoda's three-fingered hands grabbed Luke's outstretched ones, gripped them strongly. Luke's face played a gamut of emotions as he beheld his old friend, dead these many years, not only alive and well again, but _young_, young as he'd never seen or imagined him. Again, it was the eyes that truly told the story of the person he held in his grasp – it was Yoda, fully restored to him, touching him… Luke watched, astounded, as Yoda lifted his former student's hands to his forehead, bowing low over them, then pressed them to his heart. He realized that Yoda was, in his own fashion, embracing his old pupil. His breath caught in his throat as he comprehended the love his Master felt for him.

Yoda moved aside and took his place between Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon; they turned toward the waiting few at the woods' edge. Luke looked, too, shading his eyes from the sun, nearing its zenith, as it poured its radiant light into the small clearing. One of the figures moved, hesitated, then came forward. He rose to one knee, his heart racing suddenly, as he recognized the slight figure, the radiant white dress, the long, flowing hair. Her face was as piquant as memory served, her eyes as large and luminous as the first day he had beheld her in the cell on the Death Star…

"Leia!" The word burst forth like a breaking dam; he pushed to his feet and rushed to her, not waiting for her to come to him. When they met, he pulled her to him, embracing her as if he could never bring himself to let her go. He found himself weeping; great rending sobs at first of repressed grief – feelings he had never allowed himself to express when he had received the news of her death – which faded into gentler cries of wonder, relief, and joy at finding her again. She held him while he wept, crying sympathetic tears with him, saw tears in Obi-Wan's eyes, as well. Still she held him while his body was racked with passion and longing.

Finally, he pushed away enough to look into her eyes. He smiled suddenly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her eyes, then cupped her face between his two hands. Stooping, he kissed her brow, then gazed at her again, in his wonder forgetting to smile, then smiling because he forgot.

"Is this real?" he asked, more to himself than to anyone there.

"It gets better," she said, in that alto he knew so well and had missed for so long.

"Hey, Kid!" Luke spun around and saw Han, who was striding toward him, hand outstretched. Luke didn't have to pull him into a hug this time, because it was Han who wrapped his arms around his old friend, pounding him on his back until it left Luke breathless.

Han finally broke away, wrapping one arm around Luke's neck and pointing at him with the other hand. "He hasn't changed a bit!" he laughed, jerking Luke around a little. Luke was eating it up. No one had called him "Kid" since Han's death ages ago. He nudged Han in the ribs with his elbow and grinned up at his friend, taking in the healthy ruddiness of his face, the smoothness of his skin, the…

"Han!" he exclaimed, astounded. The scar on your chin is gone!"

"Nothin' new, Kid," Han bragged. "You should get a look at yourself. You remember the Wampa?"

"How could I forget?" Luke answered, reaching to feel the scars on his face.

They weren't there.

"Wow."

"He even sounds like a kid again," Han quipped, finally releasing Luke from the neck-hold, and slapped him on the back once more. "Good to see you again, old buddy."

"You – you, too, Han. You've always been the brother I never had, you know."

Han gripped his arm briefly, then released it. He was too full to say anything and turned away, embarrassed. _Same old Han_, Luke thought.

"There's more, Luke, if you're ready," called Obi-Wan, recalling Luke's straying thoughts.

His chest heaved, breathing suddenly difficult. "I don't know how much more I can take," he said, shakily. "But…" He saw the remaining people in the shade, waiting, watching… "I'll take them all!"

And he spread his arms as if to embrace them all at once, inviting them to come, too.

And they did.

It was _all_ of them – Lando, Wedge, young Anakin, Chewie (whom Luke didn't know had died – he had left for parts unknown after Han's death), Biggs… Who was this coming now, the young man and woman with smiles on their faces, their careworn expressions gone forever, their robes free of the endless sands of Tatooine?

Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen approached tentatively, as if unsure of their welcome. Luke yelled a greeting like a teenager and they met in the center of the circle of light, Beru crying gently in her happiness, Luke's arm around her shoulders. Owen shook Luke's hand solemnly, searching his face for understanding and, finding it, caught Luke up in a bear-hug that the Jedi returned as best he could, encumbered by his hold on Beru. There was a sudden burst of fresh air, as if ozone had been released, and old hurts and misunderstandings melted away forever. Owen bent over and whispered something in Luke's ear – his nephew's face transformed in amazement for a brief moment, then he reached up and brushed his lips across the cheek of his taller uncle. To those who looked on, there was a brief vision of a little, tow-headed boy standing on tiptoe to kiss the face of a grizzled moisture farmer. When it faded, Owen put a hand to his face and blushed, grinning widely.

Finally, when Luke had cried, laughed, jumped up and down, embraced, and shook hands until he felt he was totally drained of any vestige of feeling, he looked up to see one last figure standing there - tall, sandy-haired, blue eyes whose unquenchable depths could not be dwarfed by the full sunlight. Luke knew his father, knew him without recognizing the handsome man in the fullness of his youth, unscarred, unmarred, untainted, unthwarted in his original – his most gallant – quest.

Luke's old memories of his father had been, at best, visions of the brief, ethereal glimpse he got of him at the festival on Endor, or worse, the bleak Death Star image of his dying father with his breathing mask removed, all overlaid by the stentorian voice of the vox in Vader's mask, threatening, taunting, haunting. But now, as he looked on his father as he was before his turn to the Dark Side, as he had been in the days he loved Luke's mother, as he was _now_ – the old memories began to fade. _This_ was his father. _This_ was Anakin, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh – like Leia. They met in the clearing, not touching, just drinking each other in.

"Father." It was a statement. A declaration. A celebration.

"Son." It was an acknowledgement. An ownership. A blessing.

"Why are you so tall?" Luke breathed, reaching up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle in his father's tunic, identical to his own.

His father exchanged a brief glance with Qui-Gon, nodding a greeting, then turned his gaze back to his son. "The question is, why are you so short?" And Anakin burst into laughter, a beautiful, baritone chuckle, unlike the strained, painful rasps of his dying sentences Luke remembered. This was alive, infectious, and the others laughed with him. As the laughter died, Anakin's face grew thoughtful. "Perhaps your question can be answered by this next introduction." He gestured toward Kenobi, palm open in invitation. "Obi-Wan?"

"My pleasure, Anakin," Ben responded, and walked over to the trees. Luke watched expectantly, wondering what was going to happen now. He felt like a child again, basking in the awe and delight of a fantasy come alive. Unknowingly, he clasped his hands in anticipation. Anakin looked at him with love, placing a hand on the youth's shoulder for support.

Kenobi reached behind a large tree and drew forth a tiny creature, smaller than Leia, dark like Leia, with the same eyes. At the same time, Han came toward Luke, his manner courtly, escorting Leia. Luke stopped smiling, knowing something truly unique was about to take place. He straightened his tunic, brushing a hand through his wind-blown hair. Obi-Wan brought the little woman into the circle, placing her hand in Luke's. Luke couldn't take his eyes off her; she was smiling sweetly, even shyly, at him, but their eyes had locked and she didn't look away.

"Lucas," she whispered. "Lucas Anakin Skywalker."

Luke stopped breathing. "M- Mother?" His hand trembled in hers; his heart beat hard in his chest, expectant, waiting…

"Yes, Lucas," she acknowledged quietly, bending her head slightly. "Yes."

"Your Majesty," began Obi-Wan, again very formal. "May I present Luke Skywalker of Tatooine, Jedi Master. Luke, this is Queen Amidala of Naboo." He hesitated, smiling sadly, his thoughts far away, then caught himself and continued... "You've met before, but it was a long time ago."

Luke found himself sagging, his knees buckling. All the longing for his unknown mother, his grief at never having known her, the long string of 'what-ifs' that had plagued him all his life, poured out of him now, leaving him utterly spent. Anakin supported him for a minute, until Luke could stand again on his own. He reached out his hand, tentatively, toward Amidala's face.

"Mother."

Amidala pulled his hand to her cheek, her tears wetting the skin of his fingers. "Yes," she whispered tenderly, smiling through her tears.

Luke glanced up, realizing that his father was holding back, not touching his mother. Leia caught his eye, touched his sleeve.

"Luke, our actions have repercussions in the world, like waves that crash on other shores years after their creation. Father…" She turned, reached for Anakin's hand, drawing him into the inner circle. "Father was one with the Force, but he was required to wait…"

Luke became suddenly aware that all eyes were on him. The wind died.

"You had to wait for me."

"It was I who rejected the teachings of the Council and my Master," Anakin began. "It was I who allied myself with the Emperor and forsook my family and my honor." The tall Jedi, dwarfing the rest of the group, reached a hand to Luke's shoulder, turning him to face him directly. "It is because of me that you and your sister were sundered from each other for so long, and from your mother for a lifetime." He glanced apologetically at Amidala. She smiled reassurance, but did not move toward him, still holding Luke's hand. Her other hand was held by Obi-Wan, who had never relinquished it after introducing her to Luke.

"It was you, Luke, who brought me back from a living Hell, a deep pit from which I thought I could never escape." His hand slid up from Luke's shoulder and cradled the side of his son's head, fingers caressing the blond hair. "It was you who loved me despite what I was, despite the great wrongs I had done, despite the hatred that poured from me like the lava that seared my body long ago."

Luke covered his father's hand with his own, relishing the touch – flesh on flesh, not through leather. "There was good in you, Father. You just needed to see it for yourself."

"You were the only one who saw it, Luke," interjected Obi-Wan. "It was impossible for me to believe he could turn."

"Believed it not, also," agreed Yoda, shaking his head sadly. "Long ago, reckless I called you. Now, see you through different eyes, I do. Driven were you, not reckless."

"Yes, Luke," agreed Anakin, still resting his hand against Luke's neck and shoulder. "I know…" He looked around, touching glances with everyone gathered there. "_We_ know now, that you are the one who brought balance back after the Sith had nearly destroyed everything. You have restored the Order of the Jedi."

Luke was overcome. All his life, he had tried to make up for the training he had missed, the Master-Student relationship he had so longed for. Circumstances had made it necessary to hold classes instead of one-on-one tutelage. Now, however, his former students had students of their own, and another generation of Master-Student had been born. Though Luke had never benefited from the arrangement himself, it had been restored to the second and third generation of the New Jedi, and there was a new Council on Coruscant. He, at least, had lived long enough to see that. But he never thought of himself as the crux of it all, the pivot upon which the world of the Alliance balanced now.

"But Luke," continued his father, drawing him back to the present. "You have also done this wonderful thing, given this marvelous gift. You have given me back to my family." Anakin's hand dropped from Luke's shoulder and took Leia's hand, drawing her gently from Han's grasp. Leia took Luke's free hand, then all looked at Amidala. She squeezed Obi-Wan's hand and he let her go, taking a step back to stand next to Yoda and Qui-Gon again. Then, gazing fully into Anakin's eyes, she lifted her hand to him, and he grasped it in his own. A great sob escaped him and he stumbled, held up only by Amidala's grip.

"My love," he whispered, brokenly. "My own love," he repeated, kissing her hand. "Since I was a child…"

"I know," she said.

Han and Leia exchanged a smile.

"Forgive me."

"I already have, Ani."

A fresh breeze sprang up; the treetops murmured in response. Everyone stirred.

Luke felt as if he awakened from a dream. But he was still there, in the clearing, and his friends were all around him. Somehow, he knew there were others yet to meet, others who waited in other dells and groves of trees. A lifetime – no, an eternity – of discovery lay before him.

For he was here among them; he was young, and vigorous, and full of joy – he, who had so long been unable to rise from his bed.

He turned full-circle, looking into the faces of each one there.

"There's so much I want to say to all of you, so much I want to know…"

"Plenty of time you have," advised Yoda, sitting comfortably now upon a rock, as if he were prepared to stay for the rest of the day, or for time without end.

Luke stared at him, frowning a little. "Then I am truly dead, Master Yoda?"

"There is no death," intoned Han, surprising Luke and even himself, judging by the look on the ex-smuggler's handsome face. He glanced at Obi-Wan, and suddenly grinned, his smile as bright as the sun.

"There is only the Force."

end


End file.
